The Green and the Gray

By Timothy Zahn

Hitchcock meets Serling in this deadly game of cat-and-mouse between a young couple and alien races from a #1 New York Times–bestselling author.

After engaging in bloody warfare against each other, two alien races—the Greens and the Grays—take refuge on Earth, both believing their home and their enemy destroyed. For seventy-five years, they have been passing as humans, living peacefully—until each side discovers the other has survived. Now, in order to avoid another destructive conflict, these extraterrestrial rivals have united and agreed that a sacrifice must be made . . . 

On a dark and cold October night in Manhattan’s Riverside Park, a strange ceremony is about to begin. The group is focused on a young girl who is ready to do what she must for peace, but the ritual comes to an abrupt halt when the child is mysteriously kidnapped.

Meanwhile, after four years of marriage, Roger and Caroline Whittier struggle to get through a day without fighting. Their bickering is interrupted when a bizarre mugger leaves them with a little girl named Melantha. While they disagree on most matters, they both know they must protect Melantha. Unfortunately, they have no idea who is looking for their foundling or the lengths they will go to get her back. Now, the chase is on . . .

“[Timothy] Zahn has lots of surprises up his sleeve, and the ability to make the strange sound real.” —Statesman Journal

“Compelling . . . One nice touch in this highly enjoyable hybrid of SF and mystery is that at no point does any one character know exactly what’s going on.” —Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Nov 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781504064491

Timothy Zahn

Timothy Zahn is the New York Times–bestselling science fiction author of more than forty novels, as well as many novellas and short stories. Best known for his contributions to the expanded Star Wars universe of books, including the Thrawn trilogy, Zahn also wrote the Cobra series and the young adult Dragonback series—the first novel of which, Dragon and Thief, was an ALA Best Book for Young Adults. Zahn currently resides in Oregon with his family.

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9781504064491.jpg

The Green and the Gray

Timothy Zahn

To my agent, editors, former editors, and publishers in New York

With thanks for all the advice, local information, and free lunches

Prologue

The sun had long since set behind the trees of Riverside Park, on the western edge of Manhattan Island, and the lights of the New Jersey coastline were glittering on the Hudson River. Melantha Green found herself gazing at the lights, and the dark sky beyond them, as she and the two Warriors on either side of her walked along the cool grass of the upper promenade toward the stone steps leading down to the main part of the park. It had been the last sunset she would ever see, she knew, and she felt a deep sadness that it hadn’t been more spectacular. But it hadn’t been, and it was over. The sky was dark, and the marginal warmth of the daylight had given way to the chill of a New York October evening. A steady northerly breeze ruffled through the last remaining leaves, and through the fear and anguish pounding in her heart she could imagine that the trees themselves were saying their farewells. Even as they settled into their yearly winter’s rest, she, too, was about to settle into the quiet nothingness of death.

Except that their death would end a few months from now with the warm sunlight and the glorious renewal of spring. Her death would be forever.

The others were waiting at the top of the steps by the John Carrere Memorial as she and her escort arrived, the two small clusters of Greens and Grays standing a little apart from each other. An uneasy truce there might be right now, and genuine peace there might someday be, but that didn’t mean either group particularly trusted the other. Some of the faces she could recognize in the glow from the Riverside Drive streetlights: Cyril and Aleksander, the leaders of the Greens, who had talked long and earnestly with her before this decision had been made. Her parents were there, too, trying valiantly to be stoic and loving and supportive even through the agony that was tearing their hearts apart. A couple of the Grays were familiar, too, their wide faces staring silently and emotionlessly at her from atop their squat bodies. The hope of both their peoples, they had called her, the one whose sacrifice would mean peace.

She hoped they were right. It would be a terrible thing to die for nothing.

Her escort led her to a spot midway between the two small knots of people. Cyril had a few words of greeting and encouragement, but it was clear that no one really felt like conversation, and thankfully it was soon over. With the sun down and the night growing cold, even Melantha couldn’t see any point in postponing the inevitable any longer.

The preliminaries finished, Cyril and an elderly Gray with a long scar on his left cheek—Halfdan, she vaguely remembered his name—led the way down the steps into the lower part of the park, Melantha and her escort behind them, the rest of the observers joining in behind her. They walked past the small flower garden which she had been told would be her final resting spot, and she found herself wondering whether the flowers would come up extra beautiful in the spring because of it. The grass seemed springier beneath her feet than usual, though that might have been the strange shoes she’d been given to wear along with the ancient ceremonial clothing. Pinned high on her left shoulder, the unaccustomed weight of a trassk tugged uncomfortably at her dress.

They continued past the garden to the chosen spot between a pair of majestic oaks. A few more Greens were waiting there, eyeing and being eyed in turn by three more Grays silently hanging onto the side of the fifteen-foot stone wall that separated the lower part of the park from the upper promenade they’d just come from. The Gray leader beside Cyril gave a quiet order, and the Grays reluctantly came down from their perches, joining with the rest of their group. The lights of Riverside Drive blazed cheerily down from beyond the wall, and Melantha wondered briefly what would happen if some passerby stumbled upon the drama about to unfold. But most of the Humans who lived in the area were already nestled into their apartments for the night, and the wall and height differential effectively shielded them from anyone who might still be out.

She looked around her, trying to get a last taste of the world before she left it forever. The bare branches seemed to be calling to her as the wind brushed them together, and she found herself almost overwhelmed by the delicate scents of the grass and the earth and the trees themselves. Here and there above her, she could see stars peeking through the haze of the city, and even the traffic noise seemed muted tonight. It was, a small part of her mind whispered, a fitting place, and a fitting way, for a Green to die.

Even one who was only twelve years old.

The groups had shuffled into their positions for the ceremony, forming a loose circle with Melantha, her escort, and Cyril and the Gray leader in the center. Melantha Green, Cyril said, his voice dark and solemn, we have gathered here tonight to do that which must be done for the survival of our two peoples. Understand that what we do, we do for the best. We ask your forgiveness, and that of your family, and promise to dedicate ourselves to assuring that your sacrifice will not be in vain.

I understand, Melantha said. As last words, she thought distantly, they were pretty pathetic. But the sadness and dread had seized her again, and how her death was remembered by others didn’t seem very important. Her parents were out of her line of sight, and she thought about turning around and making sure they were still there.

But she resisted the urge. This was going to be hard enough on them without leaving a last, lingering look to ache forever in their memories.

Thank you, Melantha, Cyril said. He took a step back, and nodded to her escort.

One of the Warriors stepped from her side and turned to face her. With his eyes carefully avoiding hers, he reached his hands up and got an almost gentle grip around her throat.

And began to squeeze.

Reflexively, she tried to twist out of his grip, her hands darting up of their own accord to grab at his wrists. But he’d been prepared for the reaction, and his adult Warrior’s strength was far beyond that of a twelve-year-old girl. The blood roared in her ears, drowning out all other sounds, but in her mind she could feel the anguished calls coming from the Greens over what had to be done, even from those like Cyril who had persuaded them that it was the only way. Lancing through it all like lightning through storm clouds was the last call from her parents, a vibration of fear and pain and hopelessness.

She could feel her strength ebbing away now, her arms falling loosely to her sides, her knees starting to buckle. Vaguely, she sensed the second Warrior gripping her under her arms, supporting her so that the first could finish the job. White spots were dancing in front of her eyes, and the distant streetlight reflected on his face seemed to be fading away. Did that mean the end was near? Feeling like a dying flower wilting in his grip, she closed her eyes.

Even through the closed lids she saw the brilliant burst of light. The grip on her throat abruptly eased, and she had a vague sense of the anguish swirling around her suddenly replaced with surprise and consternation. There was a distant-sounding shout—the word Betrayal!

The clutching hands were suddenly tom away from her throat, and she heard a gasp as something threw the Warrior to the ground. Even as she fought to suck air into her lungs, the hands that had been supporting her let go, and she felt herself collapsing toward the grass. Another arm reached out from somewhere, grabbing her around the waist. For a moment her rescuer seemed to totter; and then they were on the move, Melantha’s jaw and neck bouncing painfully as he ran with her across the grass. The spots of her near suffocation were fading away, but to her surprise she found she still couldn’t see anything. The streetlights that had been blazing earlier from Riverside Drive had gone completely dark.

She’s gone! a deep Gray voice boomed from behind her.

There was a flurry of movement from that direction, footsteps and shouts and voices calling to her mind. Her forward motion was abruptly halted, and she felt herself being clutched closer to her rescuer’s body as he began to climb the wall the Grays had been hanging onto a few minutes earlier.

She tensed as he climbed, waiting for the inevitable shouts of discovery and the sounds of pursuit. But all the activity seemed to be moving away from her, either deeper into the darkness of the park or back toward the garden and the stone steps. A moment later she and her rescuer reached the top of the wall and the upper promenade, and once again she found her chin bouncing painfully against his shoulder as he ran silently along the ground.

You okay? a gruff voice murmured in her ear. Melantha?

It took two tries to get any words out through her half-paralyzed throat. I’m okay, she wheezed. Her voice was the voice of a stranger. Who—?

It’s Jonah, he said; and this time, she recognized the voice. Don’t try to talk.

Melantha stiffened. That last word had been more grunted than spoken, and for the first time she noticed how labored his breathing sounded. Lifting her left hand from the arm still wrapped around her waist, she carefully touched his chest with her fingertips.

And jerked away as she touched wetness. Jonah!

Don’t try to talk, he said again, his breathing sounding even more ragged. It’s okay.

He slowed to a walk, his head turning back and forth as if taking his bearings. A moment later he came to a complete stop, letting her slip a bit so that her feet were touching the ground. She stretched her legs, trying to take some of her own weight away from him. But her knees were too weak to give any support, and a terrible fatigue was beginning to wash over her. In the distance behind them she could feel the calls of chaos and consternation and growing anger. This … isn’t right, she managed to whisper. I need … to go back.

He leaned down and lifted her again off her feet, stifling her protest. It’ll be okay, he murmured as they headed off again.

The last thing she remembered before drifting into a nightmare-filled sleep was the sensation of her head bouncing rhythmically against his shoulder as he ran through the night.

1

The play at the Miller Theater had been one of those modem psychological dramas, exactly the sort of thing Roger Whittier would expect from a Columbia University student production: dark and pretentious, relying heavily on deep sociological quirks, without any pretense of rationality in its plot. From the polite applause bouncing off the lowering curtain, he guessed that most of the audience had found it as mediocre as he had.

Which was practically a guarantee that Caroline would love it.

Suppressing a sigh, he continued to slap his hands together, trying not to be embarrassed by the fact that his wife was one of the half-dozen people who had jumped to their feet in standing ovation. In four years of marriage he had yet to figure out whether Caroline’s enthusiasm in these situations was genuine, driven by sympathy for the underdog, or just stubborn defiance of popular opinion.

The applause went down, the house lights came up, and the rest of the audience got to their feet and began unscrunching their coats from the backs of their seats. Roger joined the general chaos, mindful of his elbows as he pulled on his topcoat and buttoned it. He’d endured the play; and now came the verbal diplomacy as he tried not to tell Caroline exactly what he’d thought of it. The more enthusiastic her response, in general, the stonier the wall of silence that went up if he tried to point out how much the thing had actually stunk.

A flying elbow jabbed him in his right shoulder blade. Sorry, he said automatically, half turning.

The offender, a small wizened man with an expensive topcoat and bad comb-over, grunted something and turned away. Roger turned away, too, muttering under his breath as he struggled to get his right arm into a sleeve that had pretzeled itself into a knot. What in hell’s name was I apologizing for? he growled to himself. He finished with his coat and turned to see if Caroline was ready.

Caroline wasn’t ready. Caroline, in fact, had vanished.

He looked down, a fresh wave of annoyance rolling over the pool of resentment already sloshing through his stomach. She was on her knees on the floor, her back twisted into half an S-curve as she scrabbled around in the shadows. Which one is it this time? he demanded.

My opal ring, Caroline’s voice came back, muffled by distance and the dark hair draped along both sides of her face.

Roger looked away, not bothering to reply. It was always the same lately. If she wasn’t running late because the water heater had drained too far for another shower, then she was misplacing her watch or losing her ring or suddenly remembering that the plants needed watering.

Why couldn’t she ever get herself organized? She was a real estate agent, for heaven’s sake—she certainly had to have her ducks in a row at work. Why couldn’t she do it at home, too?

She was still bobbing around, searching for the missing ring. For a moment he considered getting down and seeing if he could help this along a little. But no. She knew better than he did where it had slipped off, and he would just be in the way.

Taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself, he watched the other people streaming out the doors. If she didn’t hurry, he told himself darkly, they weren’t going to get a cab.

The last stragglers were strolling toward the exits by the time Caroline finally spotted her ring, hiding behind the front leg of the chair in front of hers. Found it, she announced, retrieving the wayward jewelry.

Roger didn’t reply. He’s angry, she realized, an all-too familiar sinking feeling settling into her stomach. Angry, or annoyed, or frustrated. Like he always seemed to be lately. Especially with her.

She felt her eyes filling with tears as she carefully climbed back to her feet, tears of frustration and some annoyance of her own. I didn’t drop it on purpose, she thought angrily in his direction. I didn’t see you offering to help, either.

But it was no use. He hadn’t liked the play, and he was probably steaming over that man who’d bumped into him a minute ago. But no matter what happened, or whose fault it was, in the end it all got focused on her. On her slowness, on her lack of organization, on whatever else she did that irritated him.

He was already moving toward the aisle by the time she had collected her coat and purse, his back rippling with impatience. Roger never yelled at her—that wasn’t his style—but he could do a brooding silence that hurt more than her father’s quicksilver temper ever had.

In some ways she wished he would yell. At least then he would be talking honestly instead of pretending everything was all right when it wasn’t.

But that would require him to be assertive. No chance of that happening.

No chance of getting a cab now, either. That would irritate him all the more, especially given the near-argument they’d had on the subject as they were getting ready to leave this evening.

With a sigh, she headed off behind his impatient back, her vision blurring again with tears. Why couldn’t she ever do anything right?

Sure enough, by the time they stepped out into the cool October air, the line of cabs that would have gathered at the curb for the post-performance crowd had vanished. Blast, Roger muttered under his breath, looking up and down Broadway.

But the Great White Way was quiet tonight, or at least this stretch of it was. The university had a significant chunk: of the street blocked off with a construction project up around 120th and the city’s own orange-cone mania had similarly struck down at 103rd, sealing off most of the street there. The cabbies, who had enough trouble just battling regular Manhattan traffic, had taken to avoiding these particular twenty blocks entirely.

Of course, they could always walk over to Amsterdam and flag down something there. But Amsterdam turned one way—north at 110th, which would force the cabby to head farther east to Columbus, which was currently handling much of the Broadway traffic in addition to its own. It probably wouldn’t get them home any sooner than just walking the twenty blocks, not to mention the expense involved. There was always the subway, of course, but Caroline had an absolute phobia about riding it after dark.

But to walk would mean giving in,

I suppose we could walk, Caroline offered timidly from beside him, her voice sounding like someone easing her way onto thin ice.

I suppose we could, Roger echoed, hearing the hardness in his own voice. That had been their pre-theater argument: a brief staking out of turf on Caroline’s current favorite subject of exercise, and how both of them needed more of it.

And once she got an idea or crusade into her head, there was no getting it out of her. Three cheers for the underdog, four cheers for the noble cause, damn the torpedoes, and full speed ahead.

He frowned sideways at her in sudden suspicion. Could she have lost her ring back there on purpose, staging the whole thing to force them to walk home like she wanted?

For a long second he considered calling her bluff, either walking them over to Amsterdam or using his cell phone to summon a cab right here and insisting they wait until it arrived. But the wind was starting to pick up, and standing around freezing would definitely qualify as a Pyrrhic victory. Better to get home as quickly as possible, even if it meant giving in.

Besides, she was probably right. They probably could both use more exercise.

Sure, why not? he said, turning south along Broadway. Unless you think you’ll be too cold.

No, I’m fine, she assured him. His sudden capitulation must have caught her by surprise, because she had to take a couple of quick steps to catch up. It’s a nice night for a walk.

I suppose, he said.

Caroline fell silent, without even a passing mention of exercise. At least she was being a gracious winner.

Broadway’s vehicular traffic, as he’d already noted, was running sparse tonight. What he hadn’t anticipated was that pedestrian traffic would be similarly low-key. Once they’d made it out of the immediate Columbia area, they found themselves with the sidewalk virtually to themselves. Construction blockages wouldn’t explain that; there must be a football game or something on. Or maybe it was still baseball season. He was a little vague on such things.

Though it could also be the weather that was keeping everyone inside. The wind had picked up since their arrival at the theater, and had become a steady blast of Canadian air pressing against their backs and carrying the promise of an extra-cold winter ahead.

Caroline was evidently thinking along the same lines. We’re going to need to bring the trees in soon, before it gets too cold, she commented as they hurried across 104th Street in anticipation of an imminent red light. We let it go too long last year, and they did poorly when spring came.

What constitutes too cold? Roger asked, glad to have something to talk about that didn’t involve either exercise or the play.

Certainly before we get a harp freeze, she said. Okay, Roger said, though he had only a vague memory of tree problems last spring. The two semidwarf orange trees, like the rest of their indoor jungle, were Caroline’s responsibility. You want to put them in the bedroom again?

I’d like to, Caroline said. I know you don’t like them blocking the balcony door there; but the alternative is to block the living room door, and we certainly look out that one more often—

Shh, Roger cut her off, looking around. Did you hear that?

Hear what? Caroline asked.

It was like a cough, Roger told her, frowning. Aside from two more couples a block up the street, there wasn’t a single human being in sight. A very wet cough, like you get when you’ve got fluid in your lungs.

I hate that sound, Caroline said, shivering.

Yeah, but where did it come from? Roger persisted, still looking around. All the shops in the immediate area were closed, there were no alleys, and the nearby doorways were too well illuminated by the streetlights for anyone to be hiding there. He couldn’t see any open windows above them, either.

I don’t see anyone, Caroline said. Maybe you imagined it.

I didn’t imagine anything, Roger groused silently to himself. But he couldn’t argue against the fact that there was no one in sight. Maybe, he said, taking her arm and starting forward again, the back of his neck starting to creep in a way that had nothing to do with the wind. Come on, let’s go.

They continued south, past the torn-up pavement and flashing yellow lights at 103rd, heading for 102nd. Ahead on their left, he could see the theater he and times went to, its marquee and windows dark. Had they started closing early on Wednesday nights?

Roger, what’s wrong with the lights? Caroline asked quietly.

He frowned. Focusing on the theater, he hadn’t even noticed that the light around them had gone curiously dim. The street lamps had turned into children’s nightlights, putting out hardly any glow at all and looking like they were having to strain to manage even that much. The headlights of the passing cars seemed unnaturally bright, the doorways now resting in deep puddles of shadow. Ahead, as far down Broadway as he could see, all the streetlights had gone equally dim.

He looked back over his shoulder. The lights had dimmed just behind them, too, but only for a single block. North of 103rd, they were blazing away normally.

It was probably something to do with the road construction, of course. Something to do with torn-up streets and damaged power lines.

But then why hadn’t he noticed it as they approached? Why had the lights only now gone so oddly dim?

And why had they dimmed just as he and Caroline had entered this particular stretch of sidewalk?

Caroline had gone silent, gripping his arm a little tighter. Setting his teeth, Roger kept them moving, staying as far away from the shadowy doorways as he could. Just six blocks to go, he reminded himself firmly. It would be no worse than a nighttime walk in the woods, with the added bonus that there were no tree branches to trip over. So what did you think of the play? he asked.

It took Caroline a second to shift mental gears. I liked it a lot, she replied, her mind clearly miles away from the safe and artificial world of university experimental theater. How about you?

The acting was pretty decent, he said. Though the Latin lover’s accent was a little thick for my taste.

You mean Cesar? Caroline said, frowning. He wasn’t Latin, he was French.

I know, Roger said. I was using Latin lover in the generic sense.

"I didn’t know there was a generic sense for Latin lover, Caroline said. Are you meaning a ‘when in Rome’ sort of thing?"

No, it’s more a general melodramatic expression, he said. They were halfway down the block now, well into the darkened area. Five and a half blocks to go. The smooth-talking romantic guy women swoon over. Usually he either seduces them or else entices them unknowingly to their doom.

Ah, Caroline said. Though in this case it was hardly unknowing. LuAnn knew exactly what was going on.

Then why did she let Cesar manipulate her that way? Roger countered, knowing full well that getting started on the play’s logic would only get him into trouble. Especially when good old solid Albert was standing there waiting for her to come to her senses?

I don’t know, Caroline murmured. I still don’t think it was Cesar’s fault.

Maybe not, Roger said, forcing himself to let it drop. I liked the set design, too, he added, hoping the production’s technical aspects would be safer ground. And the music was pretty good. Chopin, I think.

They had reached 101st street, and he was searching for something else positive he could say, when the dim streetlights went completely dark.

Caroline jerked to a halt with a short, involuntary gasp. Easy, Roger said, looking around as his stomach tightened into a hard knot. The streetlights were gone, but at the same time the various apartment windows above them were still lit, giving off a cheerful glow.

Which was, to Roger’s mind, the eeriest part of all. He’d never seen a power outage yet that didn’t take out everything in a six-block area, streetlights and buildings alike. What the hell was going on? Just keep walking, he murmured.

No, a deep voice said from their left.

Roger jumped, spinning around to face the vague shape standing on the sidewalk just around the corner from them. What do you want? he demanded, cursing the quaver in his voice.

You have trees? the man asked.

Roger blinked, the sheer unexpectedness of the question freezing his brain. Trees? he repeated stupidly.

Trees! the man snarled. You said— He broke off, coughing hard. It was the same cough, Roger realized with a shiver, that he’d heard back at the comer.

Except that this man hadn’t been there. No one had been there.

Beside him, he felt Caroline loosen her grip on his arm. Yes, she said, raising her voice to be heard over the man’s hacking. We have two semidwarf orange trees.

With an effort, the man brought his lungs under control. How big? he rasped.

Now, too late, it occurred to Roger that they might have escaped while the other was incapacitated. But maybe they would have another chance. Bracing himself, he got ready to grab Caroline’s hand and run the instant another fit took him.

About six feet tall and four across, Caroline said. They’re in pots on our balcony.

The man took another step forward. The light from the apartment windows wasn’t good enough for Roger to make out his features, but there was enough to show that he was short and broad, with the build of a compact boxer.

It was also quite adequate to illuminate the shiny pistol clutched in his left hand.

Small, the man muttered. But they’ll do. He gestured back along 10st Street behind him. The streetlights there were also dark. Come.

Roger could feel Caroline trembling against his side as he silently steered them past the mugger and down the sidewalk, trying desperately to come up with a plan. The man was obviously weak and sick. If he jumped him and wrestled away the gun …

No. If he jumped him, he would get himself shot. The mugger was a head shorter than he was, but judging by the width of his shoulders he probably outweighed Roger by a good twenty pounds. Probably outmuscled him by a hell of a lot more, too.

Here, the mugger said suddenly from behind him. In here.

Roger swallowed hard, focusing on the iron fence set across an alley between two buildings to their left, its gate standing wide open. The dark concrete beyond the fence sloped downward to a flat area, beyond which he could see a set of concrete steps leading to a higher platform, beyond which was a flat, featureless wall. On the right, between the entrance and the back steps, was a shorter wall leading into a little courtyard-like area; just past that was a fire escape attached to one of the buildings. Inside the fence to the left was a stack of garbage bags.

In here, the mugger said again.

Do as he says, Roger, Carline murmured.

With his heart thudding in his ears, Roger stepped through the gate and started down the slope, Caroline still clutching his arm. They had gone perhaps three steps into the alley when, behind them, the dead streetlights abruptly came back on.

Stop, the mugger ordered. There.

Roger frowned. The man, now in silhouette against the light, was pointing at a long bundle of rags lying at the far end of the line of trash bags. There what? he asked.

Oh, my God, Caroline breathed, letting go of Roger’s arm and stepping over to kneel beside the bundle.

And then Roger got it. The bundle wasn’t rags, but a young girl, fourteen or fifteen years old, dressed in some odd patchwork outfit made of green and gray material. She was curled into a fetal position against the cold night air, her eyes closed.

Take her, the mugger’s voice said in Roger’s ear.

Something swung toward Roger’s face; reflexively, he flinched back. But the something didn’t connect, merely stopping in midair in front of him.

It was the mugger’s hand. In it was the mugger’s gun.

Its grip pointed toward Roger. What? Roger asked cautiously.

Take her, the other repeated, thrusting the gun insistently toward him. Protect her.

Carefully, Roger reached up and touched the weapon. Was this some sort of trick? Was the other going to suddenly reverse the gun and shoot him? His fingers closed on the gun, and the weapon’s gentle weight came into his hand as the mugger let go. Protect her, the other said again softly. Brushing past Roger, he headed silently down the slope farther into the alley.

Roger, give me your coat, Caroline ordered. She’s freezing.

Sure, Roger said mechanically, watching the man’s broad back retreating. Was he staggering a little? Roger couldn’t be sure, but it looked like it. A mugger who’d lingered too long after happy hour might explain why Roger was now the one holding the gun.

But the man hadn’t sounded drunk. And there certainly hadn’t been any alcohol on his breath when he’d handed over the weapon. And that cough…

Roger!

Right. Still watching the man’s unsteady progress, he stripped off his coat and handed it over. He glanced down long enough to see Caroline sit the girl up and get the coat around her shoulders, then looked back down the alley.

The mugger was gone.

He frowned, peering into the semidarkness. The man was gone, all right. But gone where? Cautiously, he crossed to the low wall and peered over it.

The man wasn’t there. He wasn’t on the fire escape, either, or on the stone steps, or the platform across the end, or huddled around the comer against the cul-de-sac around the back. There were no doorways Roger could see, nothing a person could hide behind, and all the first-floor windows were barred. And he certainly hadn’t gotten past Roger and escaped out the alley mouth.

He’d simply vanished.

Roger looked down at the pistol in his hand. He’d never held a real handgun before, but he’d always had the impression the things were heavy. This one didn’t seem to weigh much more than the toys he’d played with as a boy. Could it be one of those fancy plastic guns the newspapers were always going on about?

But it didn’t look plastic. It was definitely metal, and it sure as hell looked like one of those army pistols from World War II movies. He turned it over in his hand, angling it toward the streetlight for a better look.

And for the first time noticed that there was something marring the shiny metal on the right side of the barrel. A streak of something dark that came off as he rubbed his finger across it.

Blood?

Roger, stop daydreaming and give me a hand, Caroline called.

Taking one last look around, he walked back up the sloping concrete. Caroline had the girl wrapped in his coat and on her feet, propping her up like a rag doll. The girl’s eyes were open, but she looked dazed and only half awake.

And there were a set of ugly bruises on her neck.

"Roger, snap out of it, Caroline ordered into his thoughts. We have to get her home."

No, we have to call the police, Roger countered as he dug into his pocket for his phone, feeling his face flush with annoyance. Did she really think he’d just been standing there with his brain in idle?

We can call them from the apartment, Caroline said. We have to get her out of this air before she catches pneumonia.

The police have to be called, Roger insisted. This is a crime scene. They’ll want to look for clues.

We can tell them where we found her, Caroline shot back. They can look for clues with us back home just as easily as they can with us standing here.

Roger ground his teeth. But she was probably right. And given the unlikelihood of a quick police response to a nonemergency situation, the girl could well freeze to death before they even got a car here.

Or rather he could freeze to death. It was his coat she was wearing, after all.

Fine, he growled. Come on—uh—Caroline, what’s her name?

She doesn’t seem to be able to talk. Caroline said, her voice low and dark. It looks like someone tried to strangle her.

Yeah, I noticed. Roger turned around, his skin tingling with the odd impression that someone was watching them. But there was no one in sight.

But then, there hadn’t been anyone in sight when he’d heard that first cough, either.

Shoving the gun into his pocket, he stepped to the girl’s side and put his arm around her slim waist. A fair percentage of her weight came onto his arm; she really was in bad shape. He just hoped he wouldn’t end up carrying her the rest of the way to the apartment.

He hoped even more that whoever had tried to do this to her wouldn’t get to them first.

2

He did not, in fact, end up carrying the girl, but it was a near thing. By the time they reached their building, she was staggering like a drunken tourist, with the two of them supporting nearly her entire weight. The night doorman was nowhere to be seen, and it was all Roger could do to keep her from collapsing as Caroline fished out her keys and let them in.

The elevator was deserted, as was the hallway leading to their sixth-floor apartment. With Caroline again handling the door, Roger maneuvered the girl inside.

No—the bedroom, Caroline panted as Roger started toward the living room. She’ll be more comfortable there.

Okay, Roger grunted, changing direction.

They made it to the bedroom and got the girl up onto the bed. She was already asleep as Caroline folded the end of the comforter up to cover her legs. Roger straightened the lapels of his coat across her shoulders, and as he did so his fingers brushed across her shoulder. The material of her tunic felt odd, like some cross between silk and satin.

She looks so young, Caroline murmured.

How old do you think she is? Roger asked. I was guessing about fifteen.

Oh, no—no more than twelve, Caroline said. Maybe even eleven.

Oh, Roger said, focusing on the girl’s face. He could never tell about these things.

But however old she was, she certainly had an exotic look about her. Her hair was pure black, her skin olive-dark in a Mediterranean sort of way, and there was an odd slant about her eyes and mouth he couldn’t place. He hadn’t had a chance to see her eyes before she fell asleep, but he would bet money they were as dark as her hair.

Better leave the closet light on, Caroline said. She might be frightened if she wakes up in the dark and doesn’t know where she is.

Roger nodded and flipped the switch, and together they tiptoed out, closing the door behind them.

What do you think? Caroline asked as she pulled off her coat and hung it on the coat tree by the door.

"I think we should call the cops and let them sort it out, Roger said, plucking his shirt distastefully away from his chest as he headed for the kitchen phone. Coming suddenly from the cold night air into the warmth of the building had popped sweat all over his body, and his shirt was sticking unpleasantly to his skin. Deadbolt the door, will you, and put the chain on? And then check the balcony doors."

The 911 operator came on with gratifying speed. He explained the situation, gave her the address, and was assured that a patrol car would be there as soon as possible.

Caroline was pacing around the living room when he returned. Everything locked up? he asked.

I didn’t check the door off the bedroom, she said. I didn’t want to wake her up. But I remember seeing the broomstick in the rail this morning.

So did I, Roger confirmed. Crossing to the couch, he moved one of the throw pillows aside and sat down. You might as well get comfortable. This might take awhile.

I suppose, she said, crossing to one of the two chairs in front of him. She sat down, but immediately bounced up again. No, I can’t.

Sit, Roger ordered, searching for some way to get her mind off her nervousness. I want you to look at something.

He pulled out the gun the mugger had given him as she reluctantly sat down again. You and your dad used to go shooting together, right? Tell me if this feels too light to you.

Her eyebrows lifted as she took it. "Way too light, she said, frowning as she hefted it. Is it a toy?"

Don’t ask me, he said. Could it be some kind of high-tech plastic gun?

I don’t know, Caroline said. It looks like a standard 1911 Colt .45. She turned it over, and her searching eyes widened slightly as she saw the blood smear. Is that—?

I doubt it’s tomato juice, Roger said. "Anything else you can say about the gun itself? I really don’t want to have to tell the cops I got mugged by an F.A.O. Schwartz Special."

Well, the slide works, Caroline said, pulling the upper part of the gun back and then letting it go, the way Roger had seen them do in the movies. Toy guns usually don’t do that.

She fiddled with the bottom of the grip. But the clip seems to be glued in place, she added.

So that means no bullets? Roger asked, trying to decide if that made him feel relieved or just more ridiculous.

I don’t know, Caroline said, pulling the slide back again and peering inside. "There’s something in there that looks like a cartridge. But—"

She let the slide go, pulled it back again. But if it was real, it should eject when I do this. Either the round is jammed, or else it’s a fake.

Any way to tell for sure?

You want me to try pulling the trigger?

Roger snorted. No, thanks. So what exactly have we got here?

I don’t know, Caroline said again, handing the gun back. The slide works, but the slide release doesn’t. The safety catch works, but not the clip release. There seems to be a round chambered, only I can’t get it to eject. It’s like it was designed to look like a real gun, but only up to a point.

You mean like a movie prop?

Maybe, but why go to the trouble of making a prop that only works halfway? she pointed out. Why not just use a real gun filled with blanks? It doesn’t make sense.

Yeah. Roger fingered the gun. Speaking of making sense, what did you think of her outfit?

A little out of style for New York, Caroline said. Reminds me of the costumes they wear at madrigal concerts.

I meant the material, Roger said. What is it?

I didn’t really pay attention, Caroline said. It shimmered like silk, though.

But it doesn’t feel like silk, he told her. It’s too smooth.

I don’t know, then, Caroline said. Maybe something new.

Across the room, the doorbell chimed. Here they are, Roger said, standing up. They made better time than I expected.

Wait, Caroline said suddenly, jumping to her feet and grabbing his arm. "Are we sure that is the police?"

Roger stopped short, a fresh chill running across his skin. Stay here, he said, dropping the gun into his pocket and moving past the front door into the kitchen. The bell rang again as he pulled a carving knife from Caroline’s knife rack and returned to the door.

The two men he could see through the peephole certainly looked like cops. Who is it? he called.

Police, a muffled voice said. You called in a foundling report?

Roger got a good grip on his knife. I’m going to open the door, he said, making sure the chain was secure. I want to see your identification.

He opened the door a crack, fully expecting the heavy wood to come crashing back at him as the two men tried to break it down. Instead, a hand eased gingerly through the gap holding a police badge and ill card for his inspection.

Roger gazed at the card a moment, uncomfortably aware that he didn’t have the slightest idea what a real police ID looked like. But he had called them, and there wasn’t much he could do now but hope they were genuine. Thanks, he said. Hang on, and I’ll unchain it.

The hand withdrew, and he closed the door. Caroline’s knickknack shelf was a step to the right; hurriedly sliding the knife out of sight behind one of the enameled plates, he unchained the door and opened it.

The two cops looked like they’d walked off the set of a TV show: one of them burly and Caucasian, with the look of long experience etched into his face, the other young and Hispanic and barely out of rookiehood. I’m Officer Kern, the older cop identified himself, his eyes resting on Caroline a moment and then taking a quick sweep of the living room behind her. This is Officer Hernandez. You said you’d found a missing girl?

That’s right, Roger said. At least, we assume she’s missing. There was this mugger in an alley on 101st Street—

Only he wasn’t actually a mugger, Caroline interjected.

He wanted us to take her and—

Quiet! Roger cut her off as a soft thud came from somewhere behind him. What was that?

What was what? Caroline asked tautly.

I didn’t hear anything, Kern said. Something went clunk, Roger said grimly, heading for the bedroom. Like someone getting hit on the head. He thought he was hurrying; but even so, both cops got to the bedroom door ahead of him. Stay here, Kern ordered, his gun ready in his hand. Turning the knob, he shoved it violently open.

Hernandez was ready, diving through and ducking to the left. Kern was right behind him, breaking to the right. The closet light was still on, and from the doorway Roger could clearly see the bed and his coat lying open and rumpled.

The girl was gone.

The balcony! Caroline said in a shaking voice, pointing over Roger’s shoulder at the sliding door. The broomstick’s been moved.

And the latch is open, Roger said grimly. They’ve got her out there!

Kern grunted something as both cops made for the sliding door. Hernandez got there first, shoving the door open and disappearing onto the balcony, the older cop right on his heels. Clenching his teeth, Roger followed, the cold air cutting across his damp shirt like a late-June breaker at Coney Island. He ducked through the opening—

And nearly ran full into Kern’s back.

What is it? he demanded, skidding to a halt. Both cops were just standing there, looking around.

At the empty balcony.

Roger looked again. Aside from himself, the two cops, and the two heavy ceramic pots with Caroline’s orange trees sticking out of them, the balcony was completely empty.

The outside lights suddenly came on, making him jump, and the living room door slid open. Where is she? Caroline asked anxiously, poking her head through.

Good question, Kern said, his voice suddenly darkly suspicious. You got a good answer to go with it?

But she can’t be gone, Caroline objected, looking around. She was right there in the bedroom. Where else could she be?

Not here, anyway, Kern said, holstering his gun as he looked along the sheer wall. And it’s too far to jump to the next balcony.

Couldn’t have gone down, either, Hernandez added, leaning over the solid balcony wall and gazing down. He twisted his head and looked up along the wall of the balcony above theirs. Or up, either. Railings you could climb, but not solid walls like these.

"But she was here, Caroline insisted. She has to still be here."

Okay, fine, Kern rumbled. Come on, Hernandez. By the book.

They spent the next fifteen minutes going systematically through the apartment, looking everywhere anything bigger than a Chihuahua could be hiding. In the end, they found nothing.

Well, it’s been fun, folks, Kern said as they headed for the front door. Next time you feel like pulling someone’s chain, leave the NYPD out of it okay?

Sure, Roger growled. Thanks for your time.

He let them out, deadbolting and chaining the door after them. Caroline had gone back to the balcony, looking around as if she still expected to see the girl hiding in a comer. With a tired sigh, he crossed the room and went out to join her.

I don’t understand, she said as he stepped to her side. "She was here, wasn’t she? We didn’t just dream it."

If we did, we dreamed this, too, Roger told her, pulling the gun from his pocket.

The gun! Caroline gasped, all but pouncing on it. Quick—call them back. This proves it!

This proves what? Roger countered disgustedly. A toy gun? It doesn’t prove a thing.

But— Caroline seemed to sink back into herself again. You’re right, she said, her voice quiet again. But then where did she go?

I don’t know, Roger admitted, looking around the balcony. I just hope … never mind.

That whoever tried to strangle her didn’t come back and finish the job? Caroline said, her voice almost lost in the whistling of the wind.

Yeah. Roger took a deep breath of the cold northern air. Winter was indeed coming early this year. Come on, he said, not knowing what else to say. Let’s go to bed.

3

They slept poorly that night. At least, Caroline slept poorly, and she assumed from the strained and mostly monosyllabic conversation between them the next morning that Roger hadn’t done very well, either.

But at least they’d never gotten around to arguing about the play. That was something, anyway.

October was usually a quiet month in the real estate business, and this October had been no exception. Summer vacation rentals were only memories and bills, families with small children were firmly settled into the school year, and the Christmas bonuses that drew young couples’ thoughts toward a nice co-op with a view were still two months away.

Which left Caroline plenty of time to think about the events of the previous evening. To think and to try to pick at the knots of the mystery in hopes of untangling them a little.

But all her efforts yielded nothing. She searched the local papers and Internet news sources for stories of urban violence that might connect with the bruises they’d seen on the girl’s neck, but found nothing that matched both the crime and the girl’s description. The man who’d left a streak of his blood on the strange gun also seemed to have slipped back into the shadows without any notice. She spent what seemed like hours on hold at the Missing Person’s Bureau, only to come up empty on both the girl and the man.

She didn’t talk to Roger at all that day. Sometimes he called her at lunch, but today she was so busy with the Internet that she never even noticed it was one-thirty until the twelve-thirty lunch shift swept back into the office. For an hour after that she worried about whether she should have called him, even if he hadn’t called her, and spent the rest of the day sitting vaguely on pins and needles as she wondered if interrupting his afternoon would make things better or worse.

It was with considerable relief that she returned home that evening to find Roger not only not angry with her but already working on dinner.

Hi, hon, he greeted her, giving her a distracted sort of kiss. How was your day?

Slow, she said, hanging up her coat and returning to the kitchen. Yours?

The same, he said, opening a can of tomatoes. Judge Vasco is down with the flu, so the contract-dispute argument I was putting together for Bill is on hold for at least a week. And Sam and Carleton are out in the wilds of corporate Delaware on some big rainmaking expedition.

At least they’re not running you off your feet like they usually do, she commented.

Which was handy, given how much time I spent on hold with Missing Persons, he said a little sourly. Turns out they don’t have anyone on their books who matches the girl’s description.

I know, Caroline said, peering at the open recipe book and pulling a block of cheddar out of the fridge. They don’t have anything on the man, either.

He glanced at her, a flicker of surprise and perhaps even respect flashing across his face. You called them too?

She nodded. "I also checked the news sources to see if I could come up with any events that might link to the bruises on

Reviews for The Green and the Gray

[saintbrevity · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

More brain candy from Zahn; not a bad book, but there's a lot of unrealistic actions by characters: "there are aliens among us, they're fighting a hidden war, and they have Powers? Okay."Not really recommended, but better than average scifi brain candy.

[ds_61_12 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A New York couple gets involved in a war between two alien species in downtown New York. All to soon they have to fight for their lives and the lives of the aliens themselves.Good read. Nice likeable characters, could have been a little less like cardboard. Good plot. Fairly good ending, maybe a bit farfetched.

[bravenewbks · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Good, easy, fun, vaguely sci-fi but mostly realistic.